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CONFESSIONS OF A BLOWJOB QUEEN

She was crying the first time I saw her. I had just left the house of one of my biggest clients. The music was blaring and the party inside was going full force. I'm not much of a party animal though. I had to be there - it was my photographs that had launched the ad campaign being celebrated inside, and the photographer had to be there, after all. But I had put in my appearance and needed some quiet and fresh air. I had put in my two hours. I gave myself permission to leave.

I left the party through the big French doors in the back of the house, walked past the pool and down to the gardens that ran along the hill to the house. The air was sweet with the smell of roses and the just barely cool air was balm after two hours in a smoke filled house. My bourbon, which I was still carrying, suddenly had taste again and I walked slow, listening to the music fade into the distance. My walk slowed to a saunter as I enjoyed the garden by the full moon light that bathed everything with a soft sheen.

I heard her before I saw her. Soft sobs, whimpers actually. I could tell they came from a section of the garden to the left, and almost turned right. But something in me made me round the corner to my left and there she was, a rumpled heap of a girl in a royal blue cocktail dress, sitting in the ground next to the low garden wall, her arms on the top of the wall, her head in her arms, crying. A pair of expensive pumps, ...

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